


So Quite New a Thing

by fits_in_frames



Series: my body, when it is with your body [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 69 (Sex Position), Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Enthusiastic Consent, Fingerfucking, Friends With Benefits, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Other, Porn with Feelings, Vaginal Fingering, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-01 00:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20456348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: For nearly 2000 years, an angel and a demon have beenfriendshereditary enemies with benefits. After the end of the world doesn't happen, Aziraphale contemplates the strange ordeal of having a body, Crowley tries to make a drunken confession, and the two of them work it out (in bed).Or: Two Immortal Fools Accidentally Catch Feelings for Each Other





	So Quite New a Thing

**Author's Note:**

> _i like my body when it is with your_  
_body. It is so quite new a thing._  
{e.e. cummings}
> 
> \--
> 
> The running theories in fandom are that Crowley and Aziraphale are either a) in an established relationship, b) in denial, or c) pining. And I thought: why not all three? Also I tried to figure out what the heck "sexless unless they really want to make an effort" means.
> 
> This is my first (published) fic above a T rating in a very long time. It takes a bit to get going, but then it really goes. Thanks to [captainvonchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainvonchan) for her constant love, support, and feedback, to [zaphodthebb, ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaphodthebb)[onedamnangryfrog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onedamnangryfrog), and [fabrega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabrega) for beta-reading, and to all of my friends on Twitter for tolerating my constant and sometimes incredibly vague writing updates since mid-June <3

Having a body was such a strange experience.

This was a thought that had occurred to Aziraphale hundreds of times during his tenure on Earth. Before having a body issued to him, he didn't have to deal with things like taking up space, or experiencing the passage of time, or gravity, or physical senses like touch, taste, and smell, or (and this was the worst one in his opinion) sneezing. These were all fairly easy to explain to Upstairs, as most angels took corporeal form for at least a short time.

But forget about trying to explain the more pleasurable aspects of having a human--or at least human-adjacent--body. Gabriel clearly didn't understand a nice meal out, Michael couldn't fathom a cozy room on a cool day, and Uriel wouldn't enjoy sharing a bottle of wine with good company if their existence depended on it.

And, of course, there was sex.

There were no strict policies on the sexual activity of angels, simply because A) it was not required for procreation, and B) angels rarely did anything for purely recreational purposes. This was the attitude that Aziraphale held for more than 4000 years, but, as with most human things, he eventually became very curious about it. Having sex with humans seemed out of the question--what if he revealed his true form by accident?--but fortunately, there was at least one sentient being on Earth that was definitely not a human.

The first time Aziraphale and Crowley had sex was relatively uneventful. They were somewhat begrudgingly fond of each other by the time they met in Rome in the 1st century, so he wasn't exactly surprised that Crowley decided to tempt him, after a delightful dinner of oysters and miraculously undiluted wine. He was mostly excited to have a new experience, but he had to admit--it did feel _very_ nice. His only complaint was the headache he had for several days afterwards, although he supposed that could have been the wine.

The second time, just outside Marrakech shortly after its official founding, was so vastly different from the first, Aziraphale was almost shocked that the experiences were called the same thing. Of course, they had already started what would come to be known as the Arrangement, and had also become friends (after a fashion) in the millennium in between. Friendship was another thing that was hard to explain to angels, who operated mostly in hierarchies--which is maybe why it was so difficult for Aziraphale to admit to the nature of his relationship with Crowley. But while they were together for those several days, talking and drinking, it felt like the most natural thing in the universe. On the second day, Crowley brought up _that thing we did in Rome_ and asked _would you like to do it again?_, and Aziraphale feigned resistance but ultimately said _yes_. They experimented with several different positions and configurations (as genitals were optional, and mutable, for both angels and demons), and it still felt nice, but it wasn't just interesting--it was _fun_. Aziraphale _liked_ it. And towards the end of the third day, he realized he also _liked_ Crowley--not just as a friend but as something different, something that manifested itself as a dull booming inside his chest, something he was almost certain Crowley did not reciprocate.

And so it went for the next seven-and-a-half centuries: they would meet up to exchange favors and stories, to share food and drink, and sometimes--twenty times, to be exact--the conversation would turn to sex. Except for one notable incident in 1602 (outside the Globe in London, involving a particularly juicy orange), Crowley would always do the tempting, and after a little verbal dance of persuasion, Aziraphale would pretend to give in, as if it wasn't what he wanted all along. That dull booming sometimes followed him around for a few days, and he would tell himself it was nothing to worry about. Soon, it didn't subside for a few weeks, and then a few months, and by the time he bought the bookshop, it had been a constant companion for almost two years.

Aziraphale had observed humans engage in courtship for centuries, and for a long time, he consciously stopped himself from connecting the feeling he sensed from those humans with the booming in his chest. But after Crowley saved him and his books--his books!--during the Second World War, even he had to admit that he was, to put it bluntly, tail-over-teakettle in love. This was confirmed when he had kissed Crowley, briefly, in his car afterwards ("in lieu of a _thank you_," he had explained), and had subsequently spent two weeks with a headache, like the one in Rome.

And Crowley? Well, Crowley obviously _liked_ him--anyone with any sense at all could tell that--but demons weren't capable of _love_. And if by some chance, Crowley was the only demon in all of Creation who _was_ capable, Aziraphale was certain he would be able to feel it. He was an angel, a being made of love, after all. So, he was in love with Crowley, but Crowley could not love him. He told himself that it was fine, and for many, many years, it was.

\--

And then, the Apocalypse didn't happen. Technically, Aziraphale's post-Armageddon't body was new: Adam's construct for him felt almost exactly like the old one (and, perhaps, was indeed the old one in some sense), but he knew that it was different. While he couldn't say whether it was that or the fact that Heaven wasn't monitoring him anymore, he did begin to notice things. Getting up stairs was a bit harder, while his fingers could feel the rough texture of book spines much more easily. And that dull, booming feeling of love was still there and stronger than ever, even though it had been nearly 200 years since the last time he and Crowley had engaged in anything more than a quick kiss.

Crowley was also affected, although the impact on him appeared to be more abstract in nature. Aziraphale had noticed, when they swapped corporations, that emotions were more intense in Crowley's body. Angels and demons could often feel each other's emotions, sometimes as if they were actually tangible, so he had experienced Crowley's feelings--mostly annoyance--from the outside, many times. Physical contact made it easier to feel them (which he knew because they had, of course, had prolonged periods of that), but actually _wearing_ Crowley's form was a new and slightly mind-boggling experience. There was a wider variety of feelings than Aziraphale had expected: various shades of anger and sorrow; something resembling joy; and even one that he hadn't felt before from anyone: a sharp, urgent pinging in Crowley's chest. It was so old and strong and unique that Aziraphale just assumed it was Crowley's essence, his _Crowley-ness_. Part of learning how to be Crowley was figuring out how to navigate the emotions, which took him about as long as it took to learn how to duplicate that silly, wobbly walk.

So when Crowley started having small but significant outbursts--anger, or anxiety, or both--that often cut short their time together, Aziraphale was not really surprised when he started reining in Crowley's feelings from the outside--sometimes from a distance, sometimes with a gentle touch here or there. It was almost automatic at first--a lingering side effect of the exchange, no doubt--but after a bit of practice, he could do it intentionally. Crowley finally noticed, or at least finally said something, when they were out to dinner, about two weeks after The End That Wasn't.

Aziraphale accidentally-on-purpose knocked their knees together under the table, and Crowley noisily dropped the spoon he had been stirring his coffee with onto the table.

"Would you cut that out? It's irritating," he said through gritted teeth.

"Sorry," Aziraphale said, scooting back in his chair and loosening his grip on Crowley's anxiety just enough to be noticeable. "Just trying to help."

"'S all right," Crowley said, his voice settling back into nonchalance. "But I can handle it. Feels like a killer hangover I had in Rome way back, but I got through that on my own, too."

Aziraphale's throat itched at the mention of ancient Rome, but Crowley was still a bit bristled, so he stopped his own mouth with a spoonful of pot de crème.

They had a perfectly pleasant evening after that, and even fed the ducks for a while, until Crowley, looking as if he was about to break out into hives, said he had better be getting home. Standing alone in the park, Aziraphale felt disappointment settle into his stomach like a bad basket of chips.

Crowley started blatantly avoiding him after that. Whenever Aziraphale called to suggest a cozy night in or a nice lunch out, there was an approximately 75% chance that Crowley "had other plans" or "didn't really feel like leaving his flat." Aziraphale knew there must be a perfectly rational explanation--perhaps Crowley was still recovering from the ordeal of the Not-pocalypse; perhaps he was attempting to "handle" his feelings; perhaps he was just engaging in more Sloth than usual.

Or _perhaps_, he thought, Crowley was spending time with someone else. It wasn't out of the question; Crowley surely knew people all over London, and those people probably didn't try to tamp down his emotions for the benefit of spending a few extra minutes together. They were of course both allowed to have other friends--of course! But Aziraphale often found himself alone in the bookshop, dwelling on that feeling in his chest and looking forward to the rare occasions when Crowley would agree to meet up: a stroll in the park here, an afternoon drink there, always in public and always ending when Crowley took the first opportunity to make an exit.

After several weeks, Aziraphale had finally had enough. It took a lot to ruffle an angel's feathers, metaphorically speaking, and not seeing Crowley on a regular basis was doing quite the ruffling job. He called Crowley on a Sunday.

"I made a reservation for 2pm on Tuesday at that new French café," he said in response to Crowley's familiar ambivalence about having lunch together. "I've heard their lobster bisque is scrumptious."

Crowley said nothing, although Aziraphale could almost hear him turning the request over in his mind.

So he tried a different approach. "It's a bit outside the city proper, so you can swing by the bookshop to pick me up if you like."

At this suggestion, Crowley agreed. "Any excuse to take the Bentley out for a spin," he muttered, and Aziraphale tried not to sound too excited when he gave him the address.

\--

On that Tuesday, at 1:15pm, Aziraphale was anxiously pacing in the stacks of his bookshop. He was certainly delighted that it was still in one unburnt piece, but after spending so much time inside it for the last few weeks, he was eager to get out.

At 1:17pm, the shop doors swung open loudly, startling Aziraphale, as well as all three patrons.

"Angel!" Crowley yelled. He was standing with his arms and legs splayed like a starfish, creating a bizarre silhouette in the doorway. He stepped in, waved his hand, and the doors closed behind him. "Where's my angel?" he half-shouted, half-slurred.

Aziraphale, having gathered himself, emerged from behind a bookshelf. Crowley's sunglasses were askew and he was grinning widely. Aziraphale sighed wearily.

Crowley tried to straighten himself up and failed, leaning precariously to one side, seemingly held up by sheer will. "Angel!" he yelled again, sounding much louder in the enclosed space.

"You're early," Aziraphale said, grabbing him by the arm. Then, after looking him up and down, "And drunk."

Crowley gave him a combination point and thumbs up with his free hand, a motion Aziraphale recognized as a "finger-guns," and smiled. "Yep."

Aziraphale started dragging him through the shop. "Into the back room with you," he muttered, trying to ignore the strange looks from everyone else.

Crowley made a small noise of protest but didn't actually resist at all.

Once he got Crowley into the room, he swiftly made his way back into the shop, where the patrons murmured their displeasure as Aziraphale ushered them out. He locked the front door, straightened his waistcoat, and returned to the back room. Crowley was still standing, somehow, and talking to himself.

"...so stupid, what could possssssibly go wrong, Crowley?"

"Could go wrong with what?"

Crowley turned to half-face him and put his arms up in a dramatic approximation of surprise. "Aziraphale!"

Aziraphale smiled impatiently. Crowley's drunkenness had exacerbated the feelings-control problem, so he started to grab hold of them. "And _why_ are you three sheets to the wind in the middle of the afternoon?" 

"Didn't wanna come." Crowley pursed his lips and removed his sunglasses. He started gesticulating, but it didn't seem to really mean anything. "But now that I'm here, let's _talk_. About _feelings_."

Aziraphale kind of wished he was drunk, too. _Boom boom boom_, said the dull thing in his chest.

"First off, I know what you're doing, _please_ stop."

Aziraphale gave up as much control as he could bear to give up, and sat down on the sofa.

Crowley started pacing around the room. "It's just ever since the world didn't end, being around you is--well, it's--and you keep--" He stopped directly in front of Aziraphale, and shakily knelt down on the floor, putting his hands on Aziraphale's knees. Aziraphale could suddenly feel the _ping ping ping_ inside of Crowley very strongly. "You're so bloody brilliant, you're so brilliant and yet you don't even--"

Aziraphale, who was beginning to feel almost uncomfortably warm, placed his hands on top of Crowley's. "I think we'll have more success if you do this sober, dear."

Crowley's face twisted into a look of reluctant resistance, but he did not pull his hands away. "Don't want to," he said, weakly.

"Please."

That was apparently all the cajoling Crowley needed, because he closed his eyes, took a breath, and did as he was told. "Nope, this is definitely worse," he said immediately upon opening his eyes again.

"Now, start from the beginning."

"I mean, that's where it started. The Beginning. The Garden."

The pinging inside Crowley was syncing up with the booming inside Aziraphale, like an accompaniment or a counterpoint. Aziraphale's head started to spin a bit.

"I can't believe you don't know. All this time, all those--and you still don't know." Crowley took a breath, looked at their hands on Aziraphale's knees. "I thought it was a temptation. The first time. You fell for it so _easily_ and I thought, good for you, Crowley, you tempted an angel of Heaven! You'll get a promotion for sure! But I just never got around to telling them and then...I did it again. And that second time I realized, I wasn't doing it to cause trouble. I was doing it because I _liked_ you, because I had _liked_ you for a very, very long time. And _liking_ an angel isn't a great look for someone like me, so obviously I wasn't going to report it. I thought about stopping but you seemed to like it _so much_, and who was I to deny you? But every time we-- every time, I just had this little itch--" he gently clawed his fingers at his chest "--and eventually I put two and two together. It was--well, it was something demons aren't even supposed to be able to feel. And I was sure they would come for me. That's why I asked you for the holy water."

Crowley looked up for the first time since he had started speaking, seeming very fragile, and that pinging--that itch--came into focus for Aziraphale. It wasn't an accompaniment, it wasn't a counterpoint: it was an overtone, it was part of the same feeling, it was--oh, _no_.

"And I was so confused when you said no. I thought--surely he knows why? Surely he can feel it? This is what he's built for! But you obviously didn't and then we fought and I thought it was over. But, Satan love you, that night in the church, you were so _pleased_ to see me. You _kissed_ me, for Heaven's sake! And after that we were...friends." Crowley said that last word with such fondness that Aziraphale felt as if he could melt into the sofa. "And it's been fine. We've been...fine. And then--then I lost you. And I just...gave up."

Crowley's voice cracked on those last words. Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's hands, a reminder that he was _here_.

There were tears forming in the corners of Crowley's eyes, but he was smiling, wide and easy, the same way he had the first time they met. "But you--you absolutely _ridiculous_ angel, you came back. And now we're safe and I just want to spend every single moment with you for the rest of eternity, but that itch--" he put a hand to his chest "--it won't go away. And it only gets worse around you. I don't know if it's because of the swap or because you keep _touching_ me, but it's _unbearable_, I can't even _think_, sometimes. That's why I didn't want to come today. That's why I've been--"

"Oh, my," Aziraphale interrupted, a little breathless.

"What?"

"Well, I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I had begun to think there was, um, someone else."

"Oh, Aziraphale." Crowley sighed like he had been holding his breath for six thousand years. "It's only ever been you."

Aziraphale studied Crowley's face for several seconds, and finally settled into the realization that he had been so, so wrong. The feeling of love coming off of Crowley was so clear and intense, now that he knew what it was, and he felt like an absolute fool. Crowley _could_ love him. Crowley _had_ loved him. Crowley, with absolute certainty, _did_ love him, right here and right now.

Crowley broke the silence with a ragged breath. "Please say something."

Aziraphale smiled warmly, and said the only logical thing he could think of to say: "I love you, too."

Crowley did not respond for a few moments, and then responded too much and all at once. His soft, open face twisted into a hard glare, and he pulled his hands away. He stood up and started pacing again, angrily. "You've _got_ to be kidding me. I mean, you're joking, right? I lay out _all_ of my feelings for you since _the beginning of recorded time_ and your only response is '_I love you too_'?!"

Aziraphale's heart physically ached. He wished, more than anything, that he could take the words back. How had he so badly misinterpreted what was happening? Was it not love that was leaping and bounding inside of Crowley?

"You're a bloody angel!" Crowley fumed, rattling the windows slightly. "You're literally _made of love_! You love sushi and books! You love motorways and woodchucks! You love the blessed ssssssssky!!"

Aziraphale immediately realized that he hadn't misjudged the situation at all, only his method of communication. _I can't even think sometimes_ echoed somewhere in his head. He very calmly stood up, grabbed Crowley's hand, and firmly placed it on the center of Crowley's chest.

"Do you feel that?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Of course," Crowley said, annoyed but no longer angry. "That's what I've been trying to--"

Aziraphale abruptly moved Crowley's hand to the center of his own chest. He concentrated, attempting to draw out that love from the center of him, to shave away the dullness and bring out that pinging overtone--that itch--and he found it, sharp and urgent and solid, as if it had always been there.

Crowley stayed still for a long moment, and then, realization dawning on his face, he seemed to nearly break in two. He made a noise that might have been the sound of a collapsing star, and his knees buckled. Aziraphale caught him with two hands on his back, right in between where his wings rested somewhere outside of reality. Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, in either an attempt to stay upright, or a hug, or both. "When we swapped, I just thought--I thought I brought it with me." Then, burying his face into Aziraphale's neck, very quietly and shakily: "I didn't know."

"I think they didn't want us to--" Aziraphale reconsidered his phrasing. "I think now we're free to do as we please." He pulled back from the hug (yes, definitely a hug) and lifted Crowley's chin with one finger. "And Crowley, you please me. Immensely."

Crowley was breathing shallowly, his eyes flitting up and down Aziraphale's face. "I want to kiss you very badly right now."

"I really wish you would." The last syllable was barely even out of his mouth before Crowley was kissing him.

This was their first kiss in almost a century, and that last kiss, the one during the Blitz, had been just a quick peck. And before that, kisses were always a prelude to something else, always a Lusty crushing of mouths. This kiss was soft and patient, the gentle click of a lock opening after a long journey home. This was a promise, not a request, and it was _overflowing_ with love. 

They came away from each other, just a little, and stood in the center of the room, Aziraphale's hands on Crowley's waist, Crowley's arms draped over Aziraphale's shoulders, foreheads touching, for a while. The next thought that came to Aziraphale felt somewhat inevitable, as things were moving in a certain direction, and he had been inside Crowley's flat just a few weeks ago.

"Well I don't know about you," he said, standing up slightly straighter, "but I would very much like to be in that positively _enormous_ bed of yours."

Crowley looked extremely proud. It was a look Aziraphale had seen before--that one and only time he had tempted Crowley, in a dark corner outside the Globe after a packed out performance of _Hamlet_.

"Let me cancel our lunch reservation." Crowley snapped his fingers.

Aziraphale put on his overcoat, took Crowley's hand, and they made their way outside.

The Bentley was parked around the corner, more than a little askew. Immediately after Crowley started the car and shifted it into gear, without looking, he reached out a little further to the left and took Aziraphale's hand in his own. They could both feel a sort of twisting tension filling the car--it wasn't entirely unpleasant, but it did cause Crowley to start driving even faster than normal.

When they arrived at Crowley's building, not-entirely-unpleasant had become urgent-and-a-bit-painful, and by the time Crowley started unlocking the door to his flat, it had turned to borderline agony. Millennia of denial were coming to a head and it wasn't even a nanosecond after they were inside the flat that Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by his jacket, pinned him to the wall in the entrance way, and kissed him. Crowley splayed his arms out in surprise, closed the door with a snap, and then finally kissed back with a whimper against Aziraphale's mouth.

This was not like the kiss in the bookshop. That kiss had been positively chaste by comparison. Their mouths came together like puzzle pieces, like candle and flame, like two halves of a whole. When the sensation became almost intolerable and they pulled away, neither of them moved for a heavy moment.

"Holy hell," Crowley finally panted.

Aziraphale only laughed, breathlessly.

They entered the bedroom and Crowley kissed him again, growling a little as he pushed Aziraphale up against the heavy wardrobe. This kiss was yet again different: a burning plea, tongues intertwining like vines around a tree. Crowley's hands were everywhere, seemingly at once, and they found their way up onto Aziraphale's shoulders, pushing off his overcoat. When he started unbuttoning the waistcoat, Aziraphale suddenly felt a slight panic rise in his throat.

"Wait," he said, placing one hand on top of Crowley's.

"What?" Crowley said, exasperated but complying, fingers still lingering on Aziraphale's middle.

"Is this what you want?" Aziraphale asked. He felt a bit silly, but they had been in different proverbial chapters--perhaps even different metaphorical books--for so long, and he had to be certain they had arrived on the same page.

"I have literally never wanted anything more," Crowley sighed, then tilted his head to the side. "Is this what _you_ want?"

"Yes, desperately," Aziraphale answered, relieved. "Just wanted to be sure."

"Right," Crowley said with a grin, and moved to continue his unbuttoning work.

"Also," Aziraphale interrupted again, feeling a bit self-conscious, "um, please remember that this body was reconstructed by an eleven-year-old boy and--"

"Aziraphale?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

Aziraphale made a small sound of agreement, nodded enthusiastically, and launched into another kiss.

Crowley continued so fervently that Aziraphale was afraid his buttons would pop off one by one, although he knew that Crowley would never let that happen. He wished this part could be slow and methodical--he knew that Crowley enjoyed the tactile sensation of removing clothing, even if his own was mostly miracled on--but they would have plenty of time, potentially forever, to go slow. As it was, neither of them had any patience left, so they fumbled with buttons and laces and buckles as quickly as they could, stripping down as far as they could go before desire overtook them.

Still kissing him, Crowley lowered Aziraphale gently onto a mound of pillows on his emperor-sized bed, and then climbed on top of him, legs straddling his hips, arms straddling his shoulders.

"So. What would you like between my legs?" Crowley asked, one eyebrow raised.

"What would you like to have?" Aziraphale countered.

"No, I want to--"

"Pleasing you pleases me," Aziraphale reasoned, feeling arousal slowly creep into his thighs. "So, dealer's choice."

Crowley's mouth curled into a small, wry smile. He kissed Aziraphale, one hand against his cheek, and then started working his way down. He pushed up Aziraphale's undershirt and paused to press a gentle kiss into the center of his chest, and then sucking and licking and nipping his way across Aziraphale's belly, and finally ducking down between his thighs.

Most angels, demons, and people would consider it a drawback to not have a specific point to focus one's arousal. Aziraphale was not most angels, demons, or people. He discovered very early on that he liked the feeling of the entire region between his hips humming while Crowley's mouth explored him. His recently heightened sense of touch magnified every kiss, every nip of Crowley's slightly sharp teeth, every swipe of Crowley's practiced tongue.

When Crowley found the spot up near Aziraphale's right thigh, the one that always elicited a raucous response no matter his configuration, Aziraphale arched his back and groaned, flexing his fingers which had been thrust into Crowley's hair.

"How does that feel, my angel?" Crowley murmured.

Aziraphale looked down and gasped, "Divine."

Crowley grinned back, mouth still half-open, and pressed his tongue against that same area of tender skin. It was absolutely obscene, and it made the base of Aziraphale's spine tingle.

He was about to move on when Aziraphale tugged his head up slightly. "Your turn."

Crowley crawled back up Aziraphale's body, stopping briefly to kiss his mouth, and then straddled his legs around his head, bracing himself with his hands against the headboard.

Aziraphale took a moment to breathe deeply; Crowley's scent was exactly as he remembered.

"I'm not a fine wine, Aziraphale." The smirk on Crowley's face said he was half-teasing but his eyes were so needy that Aziraphale's throat ached with desire.

"Well, you are delicious," Aziraphale said, under his breath, and dug his fingers into Crowley's thighs, easing them a bit further apart. Crowley moaned in response to soft kisses, shuddered at the swirling of Aziraphale's tongue. It was only when Aziraphale sucked, briefly, on his clitoris that he bucked his hips and cried out wordlessly, before sitting back slightly to recover.

"Sorry! Too much?"

"No," Crowley said, breathing heavily. "Just forgot how that felt, is all."

"And how _does_ it feel, my dear?"

"Wicked." Then, swinging his legs around to kneel at Aziraphale's side, "Hang on."

"What's wrong?" Aziraphale was truly confused. Both of them were highly aroused--he could feel it and he knew Crowley could too--so he wasn't sure what the abrupt cessation was all about.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale roughly, repositioned both of them to be diagonal on the bed, tucked a pillow underneath Aziraphale's head, and kissed him briefly.

"Not that I don't like being manhandled but--" Aziraphale started, but Crowley was already flipping himself around, so that his knees rested on either side of Aziraphale's head, his hands near Aziraphale's hips, and his head hovered over Aziraphale's pelvis. Crowley looked down, between his legs, and smirked.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, placing his hands on the backs of Crowley's thighs. "_My_."

They already knew the _hows_ of each other's bodies, from all those other times: _how_ to elicit a desperate sound with a cool tongue; _how_ to make the hips thrust with a greedy mouth; _how_ to touch and caress in such a way that the other would demand more with a hitch in their breath; _how_ to kiss and nip so, so gently on flushed skin. But every time before this, by comparison, felt like a semi-automatic, response-based performance--an urgent act intended to satiate a very specific desire. This--this was a revelry, a celebration, an exercise in savoring each other's whole being. They made love--a euphemism neither of them had truly understood until now--for a long, long time, spinning around each other's arousal like a wheel within a wheel.

_Ping ping ping_, said the thing in their chests. _Boom boom boom_, it replied.

When Aziraphale felt a shiver in the hollows of his hip bones, Crowley (who felt it too, of course) broke the circle by turning himself around so they were face-to-face once again. Aziraphale reached up to frame his face with his hands, and took a few moments just to marvel at what had happened to Crowley's body: little tendrils of hair clung to his temples, the amber of his eyes was totally blown out, his cheeks were cherry red, his lips were slightly swollen. Aziraphale thought he hadn't seen something that enrapturing for a very, very long time. It only took a few light strokes of Crowley's miraculously lubricated fingers before--

Aziraphale felt infinite in the moment before his climax, as if he was out of his body, as if he was flying, as if he was pulled taut across the whole of existence, and the only thing that brought him back to Earth was Crowley murmuring in his ear: "That's it, angel. That's it."

And then, air rushed out of his lungs, heat bubbled up from under his skin, and sweat pooled beneath his back. He grabbed onto Crowley's shoulders and craned his neck up, pulling the two of them into a deep, urgent kiss.

Once Aziraphale had recovered and could see how Crowley was practically vibrating, he sat up and somewhat roughly pushed him over onto his back. Having actual genitals meant a bit more work to reach orgasm, and now that his head had cleared, Aziraphale was up to the task. He slid two fingers and his thumb into Crowley's mouth, and Crowley closed his eyes and sucked on them enthusiastically before Aziraphale took them out and inserted the fingers inside Crowley, who hadn't actually needed any help getting slick. He moved them in and out in a steady, familiar rhythm, his thumb swirling in slow circles outside. Crowley moaned, low and deep, muscles clenching a little around Aziraphale's fingers and legs squeezing him, causing a thrill to shoot through Aziraphale's body.

Crowley writhed as Aziraphale's fingers curled this way and that, gradually increasing in speed. When Crowley's face twisted up and his throat started making small involuntary sounds, little _ah_s and _uh_s and _oh please_s, Aziraphale's two fingers that were inside came out, gently but firmly rubbing until he groaned and came, wet and sticky, onto Aziraphale's hand. Crowley's head was tipped all the way back, and his hands were scrambling, searching for anything to hold. Aziraphale took one in his free hand.

"I've got you," he cooed, softly kissing Crowley's hand. "I've got you, I've got you."

Aziraphale held his hand until he stilled, and then they stayed there for a few moments, seemingly suspended in time and space.

Crowley finally lifted his head. His eyes were still amber from edge to edge, but there was no longer any urgency in them: the tension of their mutual desire had dissipated. They looked at each other, and then sighed in tandem.

Aziraphale was the first to break away, leaning back and propping himself up on the mountain of pillows near the headboard. Crowley followed him, snapping his fingers to clean up both of them. He laid himself on top of Aziraphale, crossing his arms over Aziraphale's chest, resting his chin on his folded hands.

"Hi," Crowley said, with a sleepy smile.

Aziraphale smiled back. "Hello."

"We really are idiots, you know."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

"It could've been like that the whole time."

"Well, it _will_ be like that from now on. Because I _do_ intend to bed you again, and soon. If I'm not _unbearable_ anymore," Aziraphale teased.

"Well you are, but for other reasons." Crowley winked.

Aziraphale gave him a stern look, but it didn't last for long.

Then, after briefly studying Aziraphale's face, Crowley said, "Did you _really_ think there was someone else?"

Aziraphale felt the tips of his ears go slightly warm. "The thought had crossed my mind."

"Well, for the record, Lust with humans is much more fun when they do it to each other, and if you think I'd ever do _that_ with anyone Down Below, you're out of your mind."

"And if we're speaking on the record--well, I enjoy my earthly delights but you're, um, the only--what?"

Crowley's whole face had broken into an expression of fondness. "We're quite a pair, aren't we? Six thousand years and only one lover each."

"Oh, so I'm your _lover_ now?" Aziraphale pursed his lips.

"Shut up," Crowley muttered, feigning embarrassment. He rolled off, onto his side, and tucked himself up under Aziraphale's arm.

Aziraphale shifted slightly to accommodate him. "We never really did this part, did we?"

"What, a chat and a cuddle? No, I don't think we did."

"I think humans call it 'pillow talk.'"

"Do they now?" Crowley said, his face fully pressed up against Aziraphale's side.

"Yes, I believe so."

Crowley hummed drowsily.

"You still owe me lunch, you know."

"Tomorrow," Crowley mumbled, barely awake. "Don't wanna leave."

Aziraphale pulled Crowley in even closer, pressing their bodies together gently, just existing in the background hum of their love--a new feeling, and one that would be absolutely impossible to explain fully, if anyone ever asked. Crowley settled in and almost immediately started snoring softly. Aziraphale didn't really feel like leaving the flat, either.

"Yes," he murmured into the top of Crowley's head. "Tomorrow sounds quite nice."

**Author's Note:**

> {Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://dreamsincolor.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/fits_in_frames)!}


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